


kiss me a question

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Cunnilingus, Exploration, F/M, Future Fic, POV Second Person, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 18:04:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world splinters into pieces: her cry, followed by a shivering moan. The tightening grip of her fingers in your hair. The sensual writhe of her hips beneath your mouth and the sweet, tangy taste of her spreading over your tongue. The heavy throb of blood and desire in your veins, shouting to you that you’re alive. This you are used to. This you have missed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	kiss me a question

A truth: she seems as much a maid to you as she did the day she left Winterfell. 

She is not, in fact, a maid. She is a woman twice-wedded, and though you know her first marriage was unconsummated, you cannot say the same for her second. She'd confessed to you one night, not long after you'd both come home to Winterfell at last, a night when her tongue was loosened by wine and the even more intoxicating thrill of safety. She'd told you of the hour she'd spent rigid with fear before the bedding, of the sour taste of wine on Harrold Hardyng's tongue when he pushed it between her lips and how it had pinched and hurt when he entered her, his bulk at first seeming only uncomfortable and then becoming smothering, the weight of the world itself pinning her young body beneath it.

A wish: you’d dearly love to kill Harrold Hardyng with your bare hands if you could. If someone hadn't beaten you to it. He'd "fallen" on his dagger some moons later, Sansa said, after proving less pliable than Petyr Baelish had hoped. You would wish to kill Baelish himself had Sansa herself not beaten you to it, an act of revenge so fully merited and thrillingly uncompromising of her that you couldn't want to steal it away.

Part of you thinks she is stronger than when she left Winterfell. Part of you knows she was always so strong.

You do not fool yourself into thinking Sansa spared more than a tear or two for you when she'd left. Truthfully - though you cared for her and she never resolved to leave your mind entirely - you cannot say you felt her absence then near so keenly as Robb's, nor Arya's, nor Bran’s or Rickon's or your father's. Or more truly, the man you once believed to be your father before learning the truth of your birth long past the time you’d stopped caring about such truth. Ned Stark’s absence became tainted by death, a taint that spread to Robb, to Arya, to Bran and Rickon, until Sansa alone remained to you, her absence not tainted by death but touched with the unfamiliar joy of reunion with her, the least sibling-like of your no-longer-siblings.

Another truth: she is nothing like your sibling now.

You do not know when it changed. Any attempt to pin down the tail and follow it back to the mouth comes up ineffectual, the past too slippery a creature to hold for long. You only know that from the moment you began to want her, you'd wanted her all your life. From the moment you fell in love with her, you'd loved her since before you knew her. From the moment she gave herself to you, she had always been yours, and you hers, and that was all there was to be said on the matter.

Night after night, she curls upon your lap, trusting and small - she will always seem small to you, small and precious, no matter that she looks you near in the eye upon standing and when you lean against your writing desk and pull her between your thighs to kiss her, you must tilt your face _up_ to hers rather than down - and offers you the gift of her mouth, the gift of her trust. She kisses you and moves eagerly and innocently against you, seeking the pleasure your mouth and your hands can give her, and you’re humbled by it, you’re destroyed, you’re filled with the type of savage, desperate joy you’d thought was gone to you forever.

A lie: you are used to this.

Though you have lain with a woman – with Ygritte – more times than you can count, you have never experienced courtship. To you, Ygritte seemed born knowing. She neither needed nor wanted these shy kisses or this tentative exploration. You’d been inside her a handful of times before you ever even dared kiss her at all, an act that seemed to rival in bravery anything you’d done since leaving Winterfell. She did not sigh with drugging sweetness into your mouth, she did not touch your face with gentle fingers and wide eyes that spoke of family and affection and – though you dare not speak it aloud yet – and love.

Ygritte took, and gods praise her for every bit of it. She took, but Sansa gives.

Here is something that is half truth and half fondest desire: no man has ever touched Sansa as you do now. She has allowed no man the intimacy of her heart, nor the intimacy of her body that follows with Sansa, always follows and never precedes. No man but you. It is a gift with an edge so sharp it slices your ribcage open and allows her to crawl inside you, to live beside your heart. In truth, you consider yourself wed to her, more truly than if you’d stood in a sept and exchanged vows, or kneeled before a heart tree and pledged your troth.

She has grown restless. Where once she sat, quivering and pliant in your lap, now she writhes and squirms, pressing her breasts to your chest and pushing insistent hands beneath your tunic to map your skin. You grant her such exploration, happily, and scarcely believe your luck when she takes your hands and pushes them beneath her own clothing in return, tipping her head back with a sharp shudder when the rough heel of your palm skims the peak of her breast or when your fingers find her where she is soft and wet for you, her slickness coating your fingers as you coax her to a release that stuns her and tells you what you already know: this is only yours and you are only hers and she has never felt this way before.

“Jon,” she tells you, blissfully, wonderingly, and you will never tire of hearing her speak your name, of the volumes it contains when you put your hands on her body. “I didn’t know it was possible to feel that way.”

“There are many ways you can feel,” you promise her, though you do not explain and she is not yet ready to ask, though you can see on her face that she wonders. Then you slowly lick the taste of her from your fingers. The flavor spreads across your tongue, so painfully good that you want to taste nothing else all the rest of your days. Intrigued, her lips parted with the force of her breathing, she follows the path of your tongue over your lips with her eyes, watching you savor the taste of her.

Then there comes a night where she pulls away to look at you with appraising eyes. Two fingers toy with the lace of your tunic where it is undone and pushed open over your chest to allow the curious journeys of her hands. Her mouth is soft and pink, the edges of her lips blurred by thorough kissing. By _your_ thorough kissing, you think, full of a wild pride at the idea. You want to kiss her again, but she is biting that lovely, smudged lip, her eyes filled with questions and curiosities she’s yet to voice.

“Speak your mind,” you invite softly, knowing she does not need your invitation but that she loves to hear it anyway, loves knowing that her thoughts and feelings matter the way they haven’t for so long.

“I’ve heard… That is someone told me…” She falters, tugging harder at the lace she holds, so that you feel it at the back of your neck. “When you touch me with your fingers, when you make me… When you make me….” Her cheeks burn the most fetching scarlet. You lean forward, your lips tracing the delicate shell of your ear.

“When I touch your sweet cunt and make you peak,” you suggest, smiling at the heat from her cheeks you can feel against your own. She squeaks, helpless at the sweet filth of your words, her nod dragging the cool silk of her hair over your lips.

“Someone said that you could do that,” she tells you, her words a whisper now, “with your mouth.” 

“I see,” you say, forcing your lips not to curve into a smile. Fewer words from her could have pleased you more; indeed, your mouth practically waters at the thought of tasting her, of setting your tongue to the sweet, quivering flesh that your fingers have learned so well. But you temper yourself, schooling your features into neutral curiosity.

“Have you…”

“Heard of it?” you supply. She colors so prettily that you’re hard-pressed not to kiss her again.

“Done it,” she says. You do smile now, letting your face break into the grin that’s been threatening. The gods will forgive you this one small lie, you think.

“No. But it sounds intriguing, don’t you think?” She colors further, her cheeks gone from pink to red. A tiny nod. “Would you like to try it?” You hold your breath. 

“Would _you_ like to try it?” she asks. You hear the plea in her question, the need for reassurance, boldness and desire running contrary to ladylike impulses that are slow to fade.

“Why not?” You are mindful of your need, careful to make your voice light. You give her another grin and a lascivious waggle of your eyebrows. “I’ll do anything once.”

“Anything?” You can practically see the possibilities running behind her eyes in a loop and you bite back a groan. You touch your forehead to hers and hold her gaze.

“Try me.”

“Doing that to me wouldn’t disgust you?” she persists and you see the truth of her hesitation, a truth that breaks your heart a bit.

You catch her chin in your hand to kiss her, licking along her lips and into her mouth. “Try me,” you say again, letting your desire color your voice. From her shiver, you think she understands, but nonetheless you tighten your arm about her hips, rubbing her over the hard length of your cock. The seam of your tunic gives with an audible sound when her fingers clutch the cloth, her nails as sharp as her gasp.

Quickly, you roll her beneath you on the bed. Her legs move instinctively to encircle your hips, but you shoulder them apart, kissing your way over the bones and muscle and soft flesh that her shift covers until you are situated between her thighs. Unable to resist, you skate your nose over the fabric there, smelling her through her shift and feeling her warmth. The sound that escapes her is primal and you smile. You know the feeling.

Another small lie: “You’ll have to tell me what to do.” It’s a forgivable lie. This is hers. This will be her desire that guides you, not your own, on that you’re determined.

“Jon,” she says, her hands fluttering at her hips like birds. Taking pity on her, you pull at her shift with your hands, tugging it from beneath your chest and slowly gathering it at her hips so that she is only barely covered.

“Show me,” you urge her. Even when she bucks her hips up in the smallest of movements, you refuse to raise her shift further yourself. Finally, she curls her fingers in the bunched cloth and inches it upwards, until she is exposed to you. You want to kiss her thighs, say that she’s a brave girl. You want to bury your mouth against her. But you wait.

“I think you should kiss me,” she says, breathless and quivering. You give her a sly grin.

“But your mouth is so far,” you tease. “How can I?” A haughty roll of her eyes is your reward, her own reluctant smile quirking the corner of her mouth.

“Kiss me _there_ ,” she says in prim reproof. The demand in her voice stirs heat in your gut until you think you could turn inside out, and you want more.

A sound that’s half exasperation, half giggle explodes from her when you lower your head to press a kiss to the cream of her thigh. “There?”

A huff of breath. “No.”

A kiss over the skin stretched thin and soft over her hipbone. “There?”

“No.”

A kiss at the crease of her thigh, her blood hot and close to the surface. “There?”

“Jon,” she breathes. You smile against her, drag your lips across her in the lightest of caresses until you feel the wiry-soft hair covering her tickling your chin.

“Tell me where, Sansa.”

“On my… Oh, you are wicked for making me say it, Jon,” but she is laughing, the sound of it skittering along your nerves so sweetly. “On my…my _cunt_ ,” she says, the word spoken with a sharp edge and ending in a crisp tee, bit off between her teeth like it’s a deliciously tart apple.

“Ah,” you say, concealing the savage desire her words engender. “Here.” The press of your lips is light, but she jumps against you, her hands flexing in her shift where she holds it against her belly. You repeat your kiss, then again, pressing closed-mouth kisses lightly over her until she squirms and makes a frustrated sound, her whole body straining towards your touch. You look up at her, contrite, confused, playing your part to the hilt.

“I’m sorry, pet,” you say. “I’m doing what you said. Is it wrong?”

Breath held, her lip pulled between her teeth. “You should,” she says. Then she sucks in a deep breath, holds her courage to her with both hands. “You should try…try licking.” With a small moan of embarrassment, she lets go her shift at last, only to cover her face with both hands and peek at you from between her fingers.

“I see,” you say, utterly delighted by her. Another kiss pressed to the crease of her thigh, and then you part your lips, drag your tongue over the thin, warm skin, her muscles contracting at the touch. Her hands move from her face to hover shyly at your head, fluttering, as if she thinks it impolite to touch you when you’re in such an intimate position. Little does she know, you want her hands on you with an intensity bordering on madness. Again, you pull your tongue over her, then down the inside of her thigh where the skin is softer than a sigh, then you move to her other side and repeat the motions, each time getting close enough to her to be teasing, yet far enough to be frustrating. Against your ear, her leg vibrates, her urgency transmitting itself through every limb.

This time she does not wait for your question. “You should kiss me there like you’ve kissed me before,” she says, the words rushing from her like arrows loosed from a bow. “The way you do when you taste my mouth.” You moan into her skin, her demand making need clench in your gut like a fist. She meets your eyes when you look up, not shying away, and once more you’re flooded with admiration for her.

“Does it give you pleasure when I kiss you that way?”

“Gods, yes,” she says, fervent and true. “It’s as if you could devour me. And I would want you to, Jon. Sometimes all I can think of during the day is the way you kiss me.” She says the words with an air of confession, her voice almost giddy. “Your kisses make my toes curl.”

Such a sweet admission. It throbs in your ribcage, making you want to kiss her all the more. “Would my kiss here make your toes curl as well?”

Her breath rushes from her unsteadily. “I think it would.” You have tormented her enough. With one hand and careful fingers, you part her, stroking over her with exquisite care. She shivers and jerks, with far more intensity than she ever has at your touch before, overwhelmed by anticipation that matches what you feel in your chest and your throat and your cock. Gods, but how you’ve longed to taste her like this. But still you want this to be hers.

And so, a suggestion: “Perhaps it would help if you put your fingers in my hair,” you say. “To guide me.”

She hesitates, long enough that you lower your face again to ghost the tip of your nose over her, over the spot that will give her the most pleasure. It's the barest touch, but it accomplishes what you wished it to; her fingers spear through your hair instantly, the pads of her fingertips flexing against your scalp as she shivers and lets out an unsteady sound. The smile you permit yourself feels fierce and wolfish. Then you open your mouth and take her cunt in a kiss like you’ve taken her mouth, and it’s better than you ever expected it to be.

The world splinters into pieces: her cry, followed by a shivering moan. The tightening grip of her fingers in your hair. The sensual writhe of her hips beneath your mouth and the sweet, tangy taste of her spreading over your tongue. The heavy throb of blood and desire in your veins, shouting to you that you’re alive. This you are used to. This you have missed.

She forgets her care and delicacy. Her fingers knot in your hair so tightly that you think you’ll have bald patches come morning. It only spurs your need, until you are lapping at her with such obscenely wet sounds that you think you’re the one who’ll blush. The closer she gets to her release, the more tightly she grips you, pulling your face into her cunt in a gesture so uninhibited that you could burn to a cinder. And then she peaks and you’re sure you _will_ when she breaks apart for you, her foot curling behind your head, heel against the base of your skull, as if her entire body needs you as near as possible. It’s more than you can bear; you rut against the mattress, your mouth ravishing her with increased urgency and sweet desperation even as you spill in your breeches like a green boy. She shivers, bucks, pushes you away for a moment only to pull you back.

“Beautiful,” you manage, letting her guide you in her instinctive need. “Sweetest girl.” You say it again and again as she comes down, sweetest girl, beautiful, filthy girl, until she’s still and spent and you begin the whole process again, knowing you’ll have years to give her such bliss but too impatient to wait.

“You’re a liar,” she tells you after, when you’ve crawled up, exhausted and happy, to lie half atop her, your cheek at her breast.

“How dare you,” you say with no heat, only fondness. “I’m a paragon of truth.”

She tugs your ear in gentle punishment and laughs, lowering her voice to a gently mocking facsimile of your own. “ _No, I’ve never done that before. I’m doing what you said, is it wrong?_ ” You bury your face in the valley of her breasts, laughing, unable to keep from pressing a kiss to the salt-licked skin there.

“Not so much of a paragon then,” you admit. “Will you punish me greatly?” She tugs at your ear again and seems to consider.

“I suppose that depends.”

“On?” You prop your chin on her breast to look up at her, feeling her heart beat steadily at your throat. She is beautiful. Pleasure-flushed cheeks, unkempt hair, languorous contentment. A dimpled cheek and a mischievous glint in her eye that promises you everything, all the things you never dared want.

“On what other such lies you can offer.” She stretches against you, pleased and luxuriant as a pampered pet cat. “Be creative.”

A challenge. You meet it with a vow.

“I shall outdo myself, my lady.”


End file.
